She sat in a chair—the only chair—and had, by her attitude, been sitting there for some time. She was pale and cold, colorless—with her white hair and silver robes—as the ice of the Firmament. Except for her eyes, which were the myriad colors of sunlight on a crystal prism.
“The bottle’s here, if you want it,” she said.
Hugh managed to get his feet beneath him, heaved himself up and out of bed, paused a moment to wait until the light bursting in his vision had faded enough for him to see beyond it, and made his way to the table. He noted the arrival of another chair, noted at the same time that his cell had been cleaned.
And so had he.
His hair and beard were filled with a fine powder, his skin was raw and it itched. The pungent smell of grise* clung to him. The smell brought back vivid memories of his childhood, of the Kir monks scrubbing the squirming bodies of young boys—abandoned bastards, like himself.
*Those who can’t afford water for bathing use grise to cleanse the body or any other surface. A pumicelike substance made from ground coralite, grise is often mixed with headroot, an herb with a strong, but not offensive odor, used to kill lice, fleas, ticks, and other vermin.
Hugh grimaced, scratched his bearded chin, and poured himself a mug of the cheap, raw wine. He was starting to drink it when he remembered that he had a guest. There was only one mug. He held it out to her, grimly pleased to note that his hand did not tremble.
Iridal shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said, not aloud, her lips forming the words.
Hugh grunted, tossed down the wine in one swift gulp that kept him from tasting it. The buzzing in his head receded, the pain dulled. He lifted the bottle without thinking, hesitated. He could let the questions go unanswered. What did it matter anyway? Or he could find out what was going on, why she’d come.
“You gave me a bath?” he said, eyeing her.
A faint flush stained the pale cheeks. She did not look at him. “The monks did,” she said. “I made them. And they scrubbed the floor, brought fresh linen, a clean shirt.”
“I’m impressed,” said Hugh. “Amazing enough they let you in. Then do your bidding. What’d you threaten ’em with? Howling winds, quakes; maybe dry up their water… ?”
She did not respond. Hugh was talking for the sake of filling up the silence, and both knew it.
“How long was I out?”
“Many hours. I don’t know.”
“And you stayed and did all this.” He glanced around his cell. “Must be important, what you came for.”
“It is,” she said, and turned her eyes upon him.
He had forgotten their beauty, her beauty. He had forgotten that he loved her, pitied her, forgotten that he’d died for her, for her son. All lost in the dreams that tormented him at night, the dreams that not even the wine could drown. And he came to realize, as he sat and looked into her eyes, that last night, for the first time in a long time, he had not dreamed at all.
“I want to hire you,” she said, her voice cool and business-like. “I want you to do a job for me—”
‘No!” he cried, springing to his feet, oblivious to the flash of pain in his head. “I will not go back out there!”
Fist clenched, he smashed it on the table, toppled the wine bottle, sent it crashing to the floor. The thick glass did not break, but the liquid spilled out, seeping into the cracks in the stone.
She stared at him, shocked. “Sit down, please. You are not well.”
He winced at the pain, clutched his head, swayed on his feet. Leaning heavily on the table, he stumbled back to his chair, sank down.
“Not well.” He tried to laugh. “This is a hangover, Lady, in case you’ve never seen one.” He stared into the shadows. “I tried it, you know,” he said abruptly. “Tried going back to my old calling. When they brought me down from that place. Death is my trade. The only thing I know. But no one would hire me. No one can stand to be around me, except them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door, indicating the monks.